


Setting Standards

by AwkwardAnnie



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hair Braiding, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4590960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardAnnie/pseuds/AwkwardAnnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor and Glorfindel prepare to meet King Thranduil. Erestor has high standards. Glorfindel despairs.</p>
<p>(a little missing scene from between chapters 7 and 8 of Best-Laid Plans)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Setting Standards

"Now," said Erestor with a tone of voice that brooked no opposition, "we must fix your hair."

Glorfindel frowned into the mirror in which he had been contemplating the fit of his best robes. "Why?" he asked. "It is not broken."

"That is generous indeed," said Erestor, appearing at his shoulder in the reflection. The advisor already looked immaculately neat and tidy and Glorfindel despaired. Then he winced as Erestor raked judgemental fingers through his hair and got stuck halfway down. "As I thought. Sit and I will attend to it."

Glorfindel waved him off. "Oh, do let alone, Erestor. I will bind it up and that will serve."

"That will serve?!" exclaimed Erestor as if the very idea offended him on a spiritual level. "Were you riding out in a hunting party, perhaps. But we are appearing in court! No spouse of mine will be brought before King Thranduil looking as if a family of swifts has taken up residence on his head!"

He was nervous, Glorfindel realised. It would probably have been a surprise to most who knew him that Erestor would deign to suffer anything as undignified as nerves, but over the years Glorfindel had come to know better. For Erestor, political discourse was a performance, demanding as much rehearsal and commitment as any song or play, and though he was as skilled an actor as any, even the most accomplished artists still battled a little stage fright. Of course, since he was Erestor, the nerves manifested as a brisk, no-nonsense manner and a need to have everything just so, including, it would seem, Glorfindel’s hair.

Glorfindel himself protested greatly at the slight to his dignity, but Erestor was possessed of more strength than his stature might presuppose and Glorfindel found himself pressed down into a chair like a wayward child. Erestor took up his comb. Glorfindel braced himself.

Erestor was ruthless. Neither knot nor snag nor snarl stood in his way but were beaten and tamed and made to lie flat under his hand.  He was ruthless, and he was not gentle, and he was not at all sympathetic.

"You should have combed it last night, after you washed it," said he after the third exclamation of pain. "You can blame only yourself."Then he paused a moment. “Do you even own a comb?”

“I did, once,” said Glorfindel ruefully as the tugging recommenced. “It was--ow!--a gift. A very pointed gift. From my mother.” He did not add that there was at times an uncanny resemblance between his mother and Erestor, especially where excessive neatness was concerned.

“Then what became of it? The only combs I have ever found in your rooms have been the ones you have stolen from me to use as bookmarks.”

“Sadly, it accompanied me in my tumble off the mountain-side.”

“Oh,” said Erestor quietly. His hands stilled, and Glorfindel wondered if he might apologise for stepping over some sort of non-existent line. Then the usual manner snapped back into place and he continued briskly, “Still, you might have asked to use mine. Then we would not be in this state.” He punctuated his remark with a demonstrative tug on a particularly tricky knot.

"Would that I had Lord Elrond's foresight and had known your evil plans in advance," hissed Glorfindel. "I begin to think that you enjoy this."

In the mirror, Erestor's mouth quirked up at the corner. "Perish the thought," he said. Glorfindel was not convinced it had perished. There was something approaching a wicked streak buried under the layers of propriety and perennial grumpiness and Glorfindel had not yet plumbed those depths fully.

It took less than fifteen minutes to bring Glorfindel's hair into an order that satisfied Erestor's impossible standards, though to Glorfindel's mind it seemed thrice that and more. Finally Erestor set down the awful comb and said, "Will you wear the circlet with the sapphires?"

"Do you wish me to wear it?" asked Glorfindel.

"It brings out the colour of your eyes," said Erestor matter-of-factly, as though this were somehow an important political consideration.

"Then I shall wear it," said Glorfindel, and lamented silently that the one Elf in all of Arda that stubbornly refused to swoon over his many evident charms was the one Elf he would have been prepared to catch. But alas, Erestor seemed to regard his affection for Glorfindel as somewhere between an embarrassing condition and a personal failing and acknowledged it grudgingly only on the most intimate occasions. This apparently did not qualify as one of them.

All that tugging had left Glorfindel's scalp rather sore, so it was a great relief that Erestor seemed to have remembered how to be gentle as he set about moulding the golden strands into a shape he found acceptable. Indeed, it was a soft touch that skirted Glorfindel's ear to catch the wisps at the base of his skull that would never lie flat, and the fingers that swept the stray hairs back from his brow might almost have been tender. If he had wanted the first part of the task to be over as quickly as possible, then he dearly wished that the second might continue forever. Instead it seemed a matter of minutes before Erestor was securing the final braid and placing the circlet with its brilliant sapphire settings on his head.

"There," he said, smoothing down Glorfindel's robes and surveying his handiwork, and there was pride in his voice but also warmth. "Now you look like a lord of Gondolin, and not a wandering vagabond."

“I scarcely think anyone will notice.” Glorfindel regarded his reflection with skepticism. It was true that the Elf in the mirror was a regal figure, proud and stately and, yes, very tidy indeed, but it was not really him. But Erestor was smiling at him now, the rare, secret smile he bestowed on very few, and Glorfindel thought that perhaps he might at least make an effort to try.

The moment was interrupted by a rap at the door, which opened to admit Lindir resplendent in scarlet and gold but rather let down by the halo of frizz atop his head.

“Ah, Erestor!” he cried. “Just the Elf I need! Might I trouble you for the use of your comb? Would you believe I’ve come all the way from Imladris without one?”

“It is no trouble, Lindir,” said Erestor, and favoured Glorfindel with a smug smile as if to say, Look, there are other people who care about these things.

“Oh, an eternity of thanks!” Lindir took the proffered comb and set about straightening out his own bird’s nest of a hairstyle. Then he caught sight of Glorfindel, still critically examining his reflection. “Oh, I say! Your hair’s looking very fine today!”  


Erestor looked, if possible, even more smug.


End file.
